


Around The World In Eighty Busks

by colisahotnorthernmess



Category: Lost
Genre: Busking, Drinking, Ficlet, Fluff, M/M, Mild slash, Talking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-07
Updated: 2019-02-07
Packaged: 2019-10-24 00:46:25
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 730
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17694365
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/colisahotnorthernmess/pseuds/colisahotnorthernmess
Summary: When Desmond decides to enter the boat race, he abandons everything... but sadly also, everything abandons him. It's surprising where the most enjoyable conversation can come from when you've got no-one - and how life can come down to sharing your last bottle of plonk with a chatty street busker.





	Around The World In Eighty Busks

**Author's Note:**

> Old fic. Posted in 2008 to Livejournal.
> 
> Written for the a picture prompt (two champagne glasses sitting on an urban wall) for one the Lost hiatus challenges at 'lostsquee'

 "Spare change?" he hardly peered over his finger-board as he picked a "G" arpeggio. For some reason, Desmond didn't think the man was addressing him. After making what _he_ felt was the most _important_ decision of his life, everybody he was once acquainted with had disowned him. Why would _anyone_ be speaking to him? Who would care enough to do that? He just kept on going, down that long and lonely road.

"Hey," the man scrambled after him, his instrument bouncing on the tension from his slack guitar strap, the bellowing hollow sound it made as it banged against his forearm, "I know your face!" He stepped out with one foot and threw a black flat cap onto the pavement, amongst the chalk drawings, his predecessor's labours. It succeeded in getting Desmond's attention.

"Yeah," the Scot smiled, "Like I haven't heard that before - I've never met you, brother." Charlie wasn't certain he _had_ , but he was compelled to follow this strange enigma - this strange feeling inside. A member of the populace was here to listen to him play, and yet he promptly packed the guitar away. Money stopped being an issue when these, his pennies from heaven, his questions were answered in the form of a walking, talking Jesus. And Desmond didn't even have the hair and beard _then_. Hume may have been baffled, but at least someone was taking an interest in what he had to say.  
  
"What's it like sitting out here on your own like this, all day?" he asked him, a sudden change of tone.

"Boring," Charlie replied, "I used to be a part of a successful band, but I screwed it up as per usual - now I have to busk to pay the bills." He was trapped in a spiral of self-destruction and debt. The royalties from his band's success did not spread so thinly to feed him with food, cater for his drug habit, provide him with gas, electricity and his rent.

"I haven't got anything on me," Desmond freely admitted, "But I did buy myself this with the last of it." With that, he manoeuvred the neck of a Marks & Spencers Prosecco bottle from out of a carrier bag and balanced it on the curb with a steady thunk. Unimpressed with Charlie's reaction, he twiddled his thumbs around the adjoining wires and foil to expose the cork, and cracked open the fizz - bringing out two crystal-cut flutes in the bargain. Such beautiful glasses really deserved a more expensive wine. "What's wrong with you? Don't you want any?" he questioned the man's ambivalence, pouring his own drink.

"It's not that," the musician shrugged, "I just thought you'd have wanted to share it with someone special... I mean, why give it to me? You don't even know me."

For starters, he _did_ know him from _somewhere_. Secondly, he explained by saying, "I have no-one else." He wrapped his arm around Pace and pulled him close, placing a kiss upon his temple. "And I'm glad that you're here to share this with me - you _are_ special."

Charlie smiled, feeling more wanted than the last time he could remember.  
  
"I intend to sail a ship around the world in a competition sponsored by Charles Widmore - he's the father of my ex-girlfriend, Penny," he placed the bottle aside, resting it upon the crumbling wall to clear some room, "I'd do anything for his respect... and to win her hand in marriage." He sipped at his bubbly. "The only problem is - nobody believes me," he sneered, "So I'm flying to America tomorrow and, by God, will I enter that race!"

He'd given up on his possessions; like a Buddhist monk pilgrimaging to the temple, he was to travel the globe with enlightenment in mind. Now Charlie understood why _this_ was all he had left. "What about a boat?" he said, quizzically.

"What about them?" Desmond pecked at the bubbles, sparingly, like a drinking bird.

"Well," Pace reasoned, "Won't you be needing one? And aren't you skint, Des?" The light British rain, fell softly into their faux-champagne, cascaded down their noses and chins, rolling gently along the rims of their glasses.

"I suppose so, aye." he agreed, "But I'm sure something will come up trumps - it always seems to for people like us. Patience is the key, brother." Raising his half-drunken glass to a toast, he added, "And new beginnings!"


End file.
